


Knit One, Purl Two

by FairTradeHoney



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:38:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1291648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairTradeHoney/pseuds/FairTradeHoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cas gets a hobby.</p><p>Season 9 Canon Divergent: Cas' grace is gone and he's living in the bunker, trying to figure out what it means for him to be human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knit One, Purl Two

“You want to do what?!” Dean asked, sure he must have misheard.

“I want to learn to knit,” Cas replied. He tone was calm, but quite serious. He had a certain matter-of-factness about him that left Dean perplexed and bit annoyed. As if this was a perfectly predictable request? In ranking all the possible things Cas could have taken an interest in now that he was human, Dean would not have placed knitting high on the list. _Knitting?_

“Why on earth would you want to do that?” Dean asked, unable to hide his bewilderment.

Cas paused before responding, taking a moment to gather his words. “It’s different now, being human. You must be able to see that. I’m different. There’ve been plenty of times over the past few years that I was unsure, even plagued by my doubts, but that was nothing compared to now. I don’t really know where, or even if, I fit in the big picture anymore.”

Dean wanted to dismiss these worries, to reassure Cas that he fit with them, in their small but diverse accumulated family, but something in Cas’ eyes stopped him. He was so vulnerable right now, yet so earnest. Who was Dean to question the legitimacy of his existential crisis? Hell, if anyone deserved an existential crisis, it was Cas. Though for the life of him, Dean couldn’t see the relationship between Cas’ newfound humanity and the sudden urge for arts and crafts.

“And you’re thinking knitting will help you out with all that?” Dean asked.

“Yes.”

“Ok, man, if you say so. What do you need?”

Cas pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and shoved it towards Dean. “I wrote it down.”

“Yeah you did," Dean replied, surveying the lengthy list. "Alright, let’s go shopping.”

An couple hours later they returned to the bunker with what Dean perceived as an inordinate supply of knitting paraphernalia: dozens of skeins of yarn, pairs upon pairs of needles in every imaginable size, overpriced little plastic pieces that Cas called stitch markers, and a giant stack of pattern books. Surveying the damage, Dean reflected fondly that even if Cas were different now, some things certainly hadn’t changed. Angel Cas had never been one to do anything half-assed, and apparently human Cas was much the same.

Armed with this collection, plus Dean’s laptop loaded with YouTube tutorials, Cas sat cross-legged in the floor and got to knitting. Dean watched for a bit, amused at the crease that formed between Cas’ eyebrows, symptomatic of his intense concentration. It was a familiar sight, though when Dean had seen it before it was usually accompanied by a perplexed head tilt. Cas might not have the wings any longer, but that didn’t matter. Even tugging at strands of yarn and awkwardly clinking needles together, there was no doubt: he was 100%, unquestioningly _Cas_. It was comforting.

Occasionally, he would blurt out random expletives, and more than once he threw up his hands, unraveling his work before starting over completely. Dean found the whole thing adorable.

Several hours later, long after Dean had gotten bored and wandered off, Cas came bounding into Dean’s room. Excitedly, he presented Dean with a small square of stitched cotton. “Look!” he said. “I’m finished!”

Dean ran his finger over the surface of the stitches. The yarn was a deep blue, the color of Jimmy’s old tie. “It looks awesome, man,” he said, not quite sure what it was or why he was supposed to be excited about this tiny square. “Um, what is it?” he continued tentatively, worried he might hurt Cas’ feelings.

“It’s a dishrag!” Cas exclaimed, clearly delighted and unphased by Dean’s ignorance.

Dean couldn’t help but smile at the look of accomplishment on Cas’ face. He was so unironically proud of his humble creation. It made Dean love the little dishrag.

“It’s great,” Dean said, sincerely. “We’ll definitely be able to use it. It’s pretty impressive for a few hours work, especially for a beginner.”

“I know! It’s practical, beneficial, and _I_ made it,” Cas I beamed. “I’m going to go make more!” and before Dean could respond, Cas took off back down the hall.

This marked the beginning of what Dean would later refer to as Cas’ Martha Stewart phase. Within a week he had made another dozen dishrags in a rainbow of colors, some of which Dean would have sworn they had never even bought. He then graduated to scarves, sternly citing the importance of adequate neckwear for Dean and Sam when hunting during the winter months. His first scarf was quite lopsided but entirely charming with its woefully uneven edges. It was also a couple feet shorter than it should’ve been, but Dean meant it when he told Cas it was beautiful. Cas was unsatisfied and wouldn't let Dean keep it. He set to making more—one after another, each an improvement on the one before, but still none of them quite right.

Dean became increasingly impatient. He wanted his scarf. “Cas, how am I supposed to keep my neck warm if you don’t let me have a scarf?” he whined. This was fundamentally absurd because Dean couldn’t recall the last time he’d even worn a scarf.

Cas was unswayed. “You can have one when I get it right, not before.”

Dean grumbled a bit more but when it became completely clear that it wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he switched to silent pouting. This was also ineffective, but at least it was quiet.

Several days later Dean was eating lunch of grilled cheese and tomato soup—cold weather food—when Cas came and sat next to him, holding a folded pile of soft, honey brown wool.

Dean grinned at Cas, “Is that for me?”

“Yes, Dean. I made this for you,” Cas replied.

Dean thought Cas seemed strangely hesitant, like he was nervous about something. “Thanks, man,” he said. “It looks really nice. Can I check it out?”

“Sure.” Cas gingerly passed the scarf to Dean.

Up close Dean realized that it wasn’t just brown. It also had flecks of green, little bright, grass green highlights that popped in contrast to the earthen brown. Dean was pretty sure those flecks were the same color as his eyes. He wondered if that was intentional.

While Dean continued to inspect the scarf, Cas fidgeted in his seat. “Do you like it?” he asked. His tone was quiet, tentative.

“So much, Cas. It’s really great,” Dean replied.

“I’m glad. I made it to say thank you.”

“Thank you? For what?”

“For giving me a home. For _being_ my home.”

At that, Dean looked up from the scarf and at Cas, puzzled. He was about to ask what that meant, but before he got a chance, Cas continued.

“Even though I screwed everything up and became mostly useless, you let me stay here. You helped me when others wouldn’t have.”

“Cas. There was never any question of letting you stay. You belong here. Family, remember?”

Cas nodded ever so slightly. “I know that, but it took awhile for me to understand. I’m not an angel anymore and I’m certainly no hunter. I’m just this man with a lot of unique knowledge but little in the way of practical skills. I’m not sure I even have a place in the bigger fight with Metatron. If I’m honest, I probably don’t. So what’s my legacy? What’s to show that I was ever here?

“That’s why I wanted to learn to knit. I wanted to feel like I could leave something in the world,” Cas added. “It’s small, and it probably looks like nothing to you, but to me, all those dishrags and scarves are things that wouldn’t have existed if I hadn’t bothered to make them. I know they’re not going to thwart any demons or reopen heaven, but they make me feel just the tiniest bit important.”

Dean was at a loss for words, so he just reached over, squeezed Cas’ hand, and nodded.

Cas took a deep breath before continuing, “The scarf is to let you know that it means so much to me that you care for me and are looking out for me. And to let you know that I care for you too.”

The words stirred the embers of a fire that had been sitting ignored in the pit Dean's stomach for a long time. Then, surprising himself, he made a decision. Dean reached up and draped the scarf around Cas’ neck. “Looks good on you, too,” he mused, a small, sly grin stretched across his face.

“Look, Cas," Dean continued, his tone notably more serious. "As much as I appreciate the gesture—and I do, it's awesome—I don’t need a scarf to know that you care. I’ve always known. You’ve showed me, a dozen times or more. We take care of each other—it's what we do." Tenderly, he added, "This is where we both belong.”

Then, in a move that really should have been cheesy, Dean tugged gently on the ends of the scarf, pulling Cas towards him. When they were close enough, Dean dropped the scarf and cupped Cas’ face in his hands. He leaned over, and gently pressed his lips to Cas' in a soft, simple, perfect kiss.

Still holding on to Cas’ face, Dean leaned back, watching as Cas’ expression shifted rapidly from surprise to contentment.

Cas opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He looked happy, but at a loss for words. Dean just smiled.

“Now,” Dean asked, “have you graduated from scarves yet? Because it’s full-on winter now, and I could really go for lounging with you in front of the fireplace under a big, fluffy, homemade blanket.”


End file.
